I was rubbing the sleep out of my tired eyes looking out at the playground that sat on the back lawn of the church where I had slept on their front stoop the night before.

My plan to ride seventy miles that day was interrupted when I read a comment posted to one of my blog entries before I was able to get out of town. What I read was an extremely kind and generous offer to put Jo and I up at a B&B, complimentary, a gift of a quaint cottage not far from the oceans edge and only a few blocks from where I was sitting. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse and came to me at a time when I desperately needed the restoration of my mind and my body. The person who had presented the love offering, I had never met before. I suspect she’s an angel who was sent to look after us.

Debbie owns the place, handing me a key when I arrived. After getting settled in, scoping out the quarters, pressing on each of the three mattresses like Goldie Locks would have, I had to make a phone call.

Maya and Glen had camped the night before on the mosquito infested peninsula about twenty miles south of here. I couldn’t imagine not sharing this gift that I had received, so I asked them to join me for a night or two, taking a break from swatting the bugs and dodging the ninety degree humid Florida temperatures.

They did arrive that evening which was now two nights ago. I think they were just as mystified as I was when they pushed their bicycles into the most beautiful courtyard of our new temporary dwelling, a place that is fit for the finest of travelers.

Maya said it was the best nights sleep that she has had since departing the Pacific a couple of months ago. Glenn looked well rested too.

She’s keeping a journal as well, but on paper instead of a blog on the web like myself. I asked her to share it with me, a smile she gave as she opened it up to the only page she’s written on since starting her trip.

We sat around the table yesterday morning, Debbie preparing our delicious meal, while we discussed with her a few of the highlights, the journey, sharing our experiences with with our kind and accommodating host.

The two of them decided to pedal on after staying a night, hoping to make it to a lodge ninety miles up the road where they will celebrate their anniversary together in a gorgeous wooded setting.

Jo and I took our time lounging around, enjoying the ice cold air-conditioning, before making our way into downtown.

Seeing as how I haven’t had a hair cut or shaved my beard for more than two months, I went looking for someone with scissors. I met Lena at Salt Air, a salon on the main-strip. She piled all of my whiskers on the floor around my feet, chopping off all my hair too, making me feel like a new man. And wouldn’t charge me a dime, refusing payment, only receiving hugs. Connie was at the front desk and handed me a peanut butter cookie to take with me on my walk.

Down the street, Chris, who owns St Joe Velo was tuning my Land Sleigh, replacing four busted spokes and making all of the adjustments necessary for a wobble-less ride along the beautiful emerald coastline.

Charles, a guy I met in town, told me about a Dockside Cafe where I could look out over the marina, watch the sunset, eat an oyster and drift off into a sublime state of Margaritaville. I passed by the lighthouse and found the safe harbor where fisherman we’re bringing in their catch.

I sat down next to Angela and her husband who are visiting from Georgia, headed from here to an Island to escape and unwind. Jo laid under my chair, soaking up the sea and the sunset while keeping a close eye on the ground for anything that might fall from the neighboring table. The vacationing couple surprised me and picked up my tab, wishing Jo and I well along the rest of our journey. It was quite a surprise and extremely kind of them to treat me.

They call her, Ms Laura, and she stands behind the bar with a smile as warm as Florida and a voice as sweet as the orange juice that this state is famous for. St Joe Bar & Package is the locals favorite watering hole, and is also the only one. I was there long enough for Laura to offer me three slices of homemade key lime pie, and in addition, she spooned me a pasta-shrimp dish that her mother made that was absolutely incredible. And the woman sitting next to me, Mary Del, whose son owns the joint, made sure I wasn’t thirsty and then handed me a twenty dollar bill to take with us. She said it was for Jo, so I reached down and gave it to him, putting it in his RuffWear backpack.

George was three stools over and wanted to have a chat. He told me about how he grew up here, leaving for most of his life, and returning at retirement age to help care for his mother. We talked about love, and doing for others, and also about kids and video games. And we talked about experiences we’ve had that have helped shape us. Before he left, he slid in front of me all of the money in his wallet, sixteen dollars.

I could tell that Jo was not really enjoying the Waylon Jennings songs coming from the jukebox as much as I was. I hugged a half a dozen people and connected with them on Facebook before excusing myself. Ms Laura had two more gifts for me before we departed, putting in my palm a sand dollar she found on the beach, perhaps it carried with it good-luck. She also gave me a bottle of all natural bug juice that she promised would repel the hungriest of blood seekers that might try to drain me.

Meanwhile, online, friends and strangers are providing for us, contributing their hard earned dollars to support Jo and I on our mission, and sending with their gifts to us beautiful messages of love and encouragement, words like, “here’s a gift to carry you home”.

I’m sitting in the corner of the kitchen in this beautifully kept cottage, ruminating, giving thought to the tremendous amount of generosity that we’re receiving from so many people, friends, strangers, all of them angels in my eyes. My heart is wide open and is overflowing with gratitude as I acknowledge in my mind that there’s nothing I can ever do to repay anyone for the love they have offered to Jo and I. These are the days of love and miracles.

I was making my way from town to town, traveling by car, or maybe it was by bike, I really can’t remember those things. All I know, is that one day, my human companion vanished. One minute I was standing by his side, the next minute, he was gone. I was all alone and I was a bit frightened.

I guess I was just ten months old at that time, but nobody really knows for sure. And now that I was without my human, I had to go with another, as it would be unsafe for me to walk the streets by myself, and also, I needed someone to feed me.

I rode in a car that day, it’s one of my favorite things to do. And they’re really fun to chase too. I was dropped off where there were a lot of my kind but we could only play with each other through the fence, and I didn’t like that much. I can’t recall how long I was there at that place, it might have been two months or more, all the while, everyone was really nice to me.

If you could imagine, I was pretty wound up, spending most of my days inside, in a kennel, looking at my view of a concrete wall. I’m a border collie, that’s what I’ve been told anyways; black and white with fancy spots and I’m extremely smart, one of the smartest.

I love herding and being out in the wide open spaces, giving chase, doing what I was born to do. And I love it when everyone is together, gathered around in a circle. That’s when I’m the happiest.

A woman came to my kennel one day, I think she wanted to take me with her. She must’ve looked at me through the chain link fence, making eye contact with me. I don’t like that much, the staring into my eyes, it’s uncomfortable. She took me outside though to play where the sun was shining and the breeze was blowing.

Out there in the fenced yard, on the green grass, I could run around in huge circles. I would go one lap after another, my tongue flopping about. I love sniffing everything I can; fire hydrants, fence posts, but I prefer butts.

The lady that took me outside, she was pulling tightly, I was pulling too in the opposite direction. I was trying to get ahold of another inch of the rope, clamping down tight with my jaws. That must of been how I bit her. It was an accident, I really didn’t mean to do it.

Because she said that I hurt her and that I drew blood, I was put back in my cage and now was spending all of my time laying around indoors. Another human walked by, a lady in blue, she must’ve worked there, hanging a sign on my kennel that said, “bite quarantine, don’t touch”, whatever that means.

I have these floppy high pointing ears that make my hearing impeccable. I cocked my head and listened as a voice was approaching, it was coming from the other side of the room, a real deep voice. He was saying hello to every dog as he walked by them.

I sensed his slight fear and hesitation when he looked down at me and then up at the sign they hung, the one that warned him not to touch me. I wiggled and I pranced, being sure to let him know I was friendly, that I wouldn’t bite him. Really what I was doing was trying to encourage him to give me a scratch through the fence. I’ll do anything for a scratch.

I’ll never forget the first time he touched me, it felt so good. He got that spot right behind my ear that gets me every time. My eyes must have gone droopy as he sat their talking to me, continuing to rub the side of my face through the fence. I only understood two of the words he said the whole time he was there, “good” and “boy”.

I saw him again the next day. He was making his way through the big room, saying hi to the other dogs, but he arrived quicker this time at my kennel, bringing me a bone. It was a milk bone, and it was much different than the the other bones I had been eating lately.

This time I would lean the entire side of my body against the fence, pressing firmly up against it, making it easy for him to reach through and touch me. He was talking to me, and even though I couldn’t understand most everything he said, it all sounded so nice.

I didn’t understand why he couldn’t take me with him. I was ready to go. I hear the other other humans telling him that I might have to be moved to another place, a border collie rescue, or perhaps be euthanized. I didn’t even want to know what that word meant.

It seemed like eternity before I saw him again but it could have been just a minute or maybe just a day until he returned. I wagged as enthusiastically as I could but I was also trying not to be to rambunctious and turn him away. One of the the other humans that wears blue, and is here all the time, told him I was un-adoptable, another word I don’t know, and didn’t care to know.

I have no real concept of time, but it seemed like he was coming around a lot. One day, he put a leash on me and took me out into that same yard where they say I bit that woman. I don’t remember that either, or maybe I do.

While we were out there playing, he tossed a tennis ball. It was flying through the air, and so was I, going after it. It felt like I woke up at Wimbledon or in dog heaven.

I showed him how good I was at playing the entire field, returning every ball to him that he threw. And I wasn’t quick to let the ball go either when I returned it, trying to make him tug it from my teeth, but he wasn’t having any of it. I had to sit and leave it. I’m really good at sitting.

There I was again, in my kennel, laying on my green plastic hammock, passing the time, the last turd I laid, laying there next to me. That’s when I heard his voice come through the door. I knew his voice well. He calls me Jo. I think I like that name. He walked over to visit with me, this time with the lady in blue. She was holding a piece of paper in her hand.

I had never sat at a desk before, so I laid under his chair. He was reaching down and patting my head with one hand and playing with the papers on the desk with the other. He and the woman sat there playing papers together for awhile.

Now it was just the two of us, him walking me outside, beyond the doors, where there were no fences. It was all so big, and so exciting, so much in fact, that I actually pee’d myself. I was finally free.

I don’t know what I’ve ever done in my lifetime that would qualify me to receive such random and miraculous blessings. These gifts, I believe, come from my Creator, delivered to me by…people. And how is it possible, that each of these blessings seem to find me at exactly the right moment if it wasn’t for a loving Spirit looking after me.

Before I tell you about the amazing gift that Jo and I just received, I’d like to share with you a few of the others, the miracles that these earth angels have been bestowing upon us.

When I woke up yesterday, I was laying on the front lawn of the fire department in Panama City Beach. Jo was right there beside me where we slept under the stars together.

It wasn’t just the Captain, it was most of the crew that made there way over to us, offering us good-morning greetings just as the sun was rising.

It was six o’clock, a cup of coffee was placed in my hand by one of them. He had a kind voice, letting me know that he put cream and sugar in it. How nice. Moments later, another man in blue walked over and handed me a days supply of Gatorade and enough water for Jo and I both. And then another hero escorted me to the shower, handing me a warm towel fresh from the dryer. The last one to say hello wanted us to know that if we needed anything at all, that we shouldn’t be shy to ask.

My spirits were lifted, but in the back of my mind I was holding on to a little bit of worry that was interfering with my happiness. I was looking over my finances, giving my dwindling bank account to much thought. 71 days on the road, visiting America one day, one heart and one town at a time comes with it’s price.

I considered all of the monetary gifts that we’ve received, the love coming to me from over 100 people that have contributed since I left home. I felt reluctant to ask for anymore help even though I knew I needed it in order to complete this mission.

I sat down at the McDonald’s and I wrote my previous blog. At the end of my writing I included an honest request from those reading, basically asking for a miracle. And it happened.

By the end of the day, nine of my friends had deposited the sum of $557 dollars into my GoFundMe account. When I checked my emails in the early evening, I learned of all of the generosity. A few tears rolled down as I sat there on a highway guardrail, looking out over the ocean, watching the sun setting on the horizon. I just couldn’t believe it.

I’ve spoken of Miya and Glenn before. They’re a lovely couple making their way coast to coast by bike. We’ve continued to cross paths along the way, unplanned, random encounters as we traverse the country. First meeting in Arizona, then again in Louisiana, another time boarding the ferry on Dauphin Island and then once again, yesterday, when I felt like I needed the company of a friend.

I was pedaling through Panama City, passing by a deli when I looked to my right and saw them sitting on the patio. I let out a loud celebratory holler and flipped around to say hi. The four of us, Jo included in that number, made the fifty mile ride together to Port Saint Joe, not seeing a single beach bear as the signs indicate we might.

Jo loves having other cyclist around, it gives him an opportunity to exercise his herding instinct. He sits in his wagon, poking his head around the saddle bags, keeping a close eye on them as we roll down the highway.

Miya and Glenn had planned on continuing another fifteen miles or so, an out of the way detour to the state park campground on the peninsula where visitors are promised the most beautiful beach in America. I imagined standing on those shores covered in white sugary sand and having an endless view of the emerald green waters.

Following them out there and back would have added about thirty miles round trip. They said they were planning to post up there for two nights, making the extended ride worth it.

I decided to stay in town and later discovered that the only RV park here doesn’t welcome tent campers. I ended up visiting with one of the employees at McDonald’s on their front patio. We had a spiritual conversation, him saying “anytime God comes up in a discussion, I know it’s gonna be a good talk”.

It was now ten o’clock at night, the town so quite you might have thought they rolled up the asphalt at dusk. I looked at my phone, searching for churches and found one with ease.

I pushed my Land Sleigh under the awning of the front door of the brick building, the church. I laid my sleeping bag down, made sure Jo was comfy and rolled around on my deflated air mattress that has a hole in it. It was warm and humid and sleep seemed to escape me for most of the night.

I planned on waking and riding the seventy miles to a place called Slopchoppy. Who names these towns? But as was sitting at the coffee shop, still in Port Saint Joe, an email came in from someone whom I had never met before and am not connected with on Facebook either.

She suggested we stay here in this beautiful town on the Forgotten Coast, a place that’s famous for its oysters and breath taking beaches. With her suggestion came the most generous offer, a gift of a luxurious bed and breakfast, a pet friendly cottage.

I responded to her email, asking her to call me. A moment later my phone rang, I heard her sweet voice, she sounded like an angel and I believe that she is. She’s from Louisiana, wanting to remain anonymous, saying that she likes doing things for other people. She’s been reading my blog. The woman added that she spoke with Debbie, the owner of the Tiki Palms Inn and that she was waiting for us to arrive just three blocks from where I was sitting, that our accommodations were paid for for the next two nights.

I met with Debbie, who said we have the entire place to ourselves tonight. Then I put a pin on their map, noting that Jo and I are the only ones from Oregon to have stayed here in this beautiful place.

On 6th street in Austin, I had taken a seat in a lounge, a stack of postcards laid out in front of me, my hand busy with the borrowed pen, inking my thanks on the back of each one. The man seated in the booth beside me was curious, looking over the edge, asking me questions about the mission I’m on.

I told him about my dream, Operation Elf Box, creating a brighter Christmas for children, that I’ve been pouring my heart into my purpose for the last five years. The story I shared with him came with some of the sacrifices that I’ve made along the way. He was attentive, listening to me tell him about some of the most significant moments in my life and the progress I’ve experienced.

The man sat there looking back at me like he understood it all, but when I finished speaking, he spoke, asking me this question. “Why are you doing all of this for others?” He followed up with this statement, saying “America doesn’t give a shit about you.”

My heart broke silently when his words reached it, but it didn’t break for long.

I began thinking about the first question he asked me; why?

Last December a woman came walking into Operation Elf Box, in Bend, with what appeared to be a permanent frown. She was walking slowly through our doorway, a look of curiosity on her face. I invited her to sit with me and gave her the warmest, friendliest welcome I could offer her. She asked me if I knew her, to which I replied that I did not, and then she began telling me her story.

Her husband had been physically beating her for several years. One of the attacks had landed him in jail, a neighbor calling the police when they heard the cries coming through the apartment walls.

After he was released, she said she felt guilty about him not having anyplace to go, perhaps he would be homeless or that he might have to stay in a homeless shelter. In a moment of weakness, on the phone with him, she agreed to let him come back home.

But before he arrived she made an agreement with the neighbor, that if a dispute broke out, and if she pounded on the wall three times that they were to call the cops for her.

It was later that night, his first night in the house, when he was pounding her head on the ground, trying to kill her. She said that she was almost unconscious but was trying to slide herself across the floor to reach the wall, to hit it, hoping the neighbors would hear and come to her rescue before it was to late.

I listened to every word she said, taking notice as I did of her scarred eyebrow, the broken blood vessels in her eye and I could observe the lumps on her head through her winter hat.

And then she said this “I have not been able to make many choices of my own for a long time”. She referenced how something as simple as her buying the wrong toothpaste or spending to much money at the grocery store could trigger the violence in him.

I learned a few years ago that choices are empowering, especially at a time when a person has fewer to make. It was a counselor at Saving Grace, a nonprofit in Bend that provides services for families dealing with domestic violence that told me this. So that’s what we like to do at Operation Elf Box, offer choices, lots of choices, and love.

I watched as this lovely mother became at ease, spending an hour or more inside the Elf Shoppe, a free toy store, looking over everything closely. She chose her children’s stockings, the stuffers that went in them, several books from our library, a puzzle, a stuffed animal and a nice gift for each of her children. She took her time choosing her paper, the bright bows and then handwriting her own labels before wrapping them herself.

As she was leaving, she struggled to get a single word out of her mouth, trying to thank us while the tears welled up in her eyes, but also with a smile on her face.

Love, it is the reason why I do what I do.

I hope that this writing answers the man’s question who I had met in Austin. And despite his statement, I actually believe that America does give a shit about me.

Shoeless and I are in Panama City Beach. We camped at the fire station last night. I’ll be pedaling around the big bend along the coastline for a few days. They say these are the most beautiful beaches in America.

I’ve tried to make a practice out of not worrying, instead, asking people to help, those who love me and Jo. If you’re still reading this, I have less than $100 in my bank account and could use your help. I’m expecting it take me another eight days to reach the Atlantic and then there’s the process of returning home to Bend which I haven’t completely figured out yet. Here’s a link to my GoFundMe, if you feel inspired and are able to give.

With Love & Gratitude,

Josh Hart & Shoeless Jo

www.gofundme.com/operationelfbox

P.S. I took these photo’s yesterday, riding the fifty miles or so from Niceville to Panama City Beach. Jon, the fire captain let us camp out last night which was really kind and another firefighter brought me coffee in the morning. It was like staying at the Ritz.

I’m picturing her on this day, relaxing in her flannel pajamas, my dad probably fixing her her morning coffee, delivering it to her bedside. She’s an angel in my life in many ways. She’s taught me about love and compassion and is always encouraging me.

I suspect that she was up late last night, keeping her tea hot, while also flipping through the pages of a good book. She loves to read and, in fact, is reading this right now. Hi mom, I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.

I left Pensacola yesterday after waking up on the church lawn, then hanging out at a coffee shop for a few hours where I made a few friends. Then I made a pass through the downtown farmers and artist market before pedaling over the bridge toward Destin.

The stretch of highway that I was coasting along is Florida’s most beautiful, Emerald Coastline. The only time I’ve ever seen beaches like this has been in photographs and now Jo and I are here wading in the cool waves, crunching our toes and paws in the sugar sand.

The temperature was predicted to reach 87 and it did. That’s why I was guzzling water. Jo was drinking like a camel too and was hangin his head out of his wagon trying to catch the breeze on his tongue.

I swung in to the Boardwalk Shop and grabbed a few drinks, a Gatorade and a water for Jo. Michael took interest in our journey and snapped a picture of us before we rolled out.

I had no idea where I was going to sleep in Destin last night. The campgrounds are full and really can’t afford the hotel rooms, if there were any, especially on a Saturday night. I decided to stroll the boardwalk and take in the sites.

I met Jack and Cindy instantly, a curious couple who was out having fun by the beach and wanted to know about our journey, the long bike ride and Operation Elf Box.

I sat with them for a few minutes, conversing, and then joined them at the Harborside. A band was set up on the patio, Cindy was set up on the table, dancing.

Jack was quick and kind to offer Jo and I a place to stay at his home in the town of Niceville. How nice of him. But Jo would have to sleep outside and I don’t think Jo would like that. Since Cindy has a home there too, and is as nice as Jack, she offered up her place to us as well. She also opened up her wallet, handing me twenty one dollars, supporting my mission.

It was extremely kind and trusting of them to offer and host us. Being able to take a shower, cycle my clothes through the wash, sip a cup of tea and sleep where there was no chance of sprinklers hosing me down. It was a real luxury.

She made Andy. He’s 18. And she made us both her power-packed spirulina, chiaseed pancakes for breakfast and set a coffee down beside me. She was like a mother angel.

And how could I possibly thank her enough? All I could do was say “thank you” and give her a hug as we stood at the end of their driveway. I felt gratefulness in my heart for the gift, the kindness, for the hospitality. She welcomed me in like a son on Mother’s Day.

A homeless man woke me up this morning just as the sun was beginning to do the same. He tucked his bedroll behind the bush on the opposite side of the concrete wall where I was laying, where it would be out of site, safe. He said that the church next door was hosting a free breakfast, that I could join him, pointing his finger a block away.

After saying goodbye to Greg, Patrick and his folks, I pedaled east across the highway, leaving the luxurious lifestyle and the Caribe Resort behind me. That was yesterday. I also bid my farewell to Alabama as I crossed over into Florida at the Florabama state line.

The open sign was flashing at MoJo’s coffee shop in Perdido Key. I spent the warmer part of the day hanging out with Jo on their shaded patio. The iced Americano that the gal made me was strong enough to send a car across the entire state. Several hours passed with me writing my last blog and pausing on occasion to chat with a few of the patrons that were coming and going.

One of the many things that I have loved about this long bike ride has been the random human connections I’ve experienced, all of the relationships that have spawned along the way.

Absolute strangers have taken me in, making friends, spending time together getting to know each other. They’re treating Jo and I like we are family. These countless miracles continue to amaze me.

I’m taking each day as it comes. This is freedom. I have a general idea of the direction I’m headed but no course set in stone. Since my cycling specific road map fell out of my pocket on the Westside of Austin a few weeks ago, I now glance at the map on my phone each day and decide which road to explore.

When I arrived in Pensacola my stomach was talking to me. In the downtown district, I sat down on the patio of an Irish pub and shoveled in a shepherds pie. The sun was setting in the park across the street. I stopped there on a bench and watched the night take over the day. Meanwhile, there was a street musician serenading me from a half block away. I walked in that direction.

That’s when I met Larry and Crystal. They were taking up residency in front of World of Beer, people watching, those shuffling along the congested sidewalk. They said hi as I passed, pointing at Jo who was sticking his head out of his wagon as I pushed.

I took a table by myself out front. Larry walked over, randomly handing me the four dollars he had in his pocket, then offered to buy me a cold drink and invited me to sit with them.

There was a wonderful connection between us. We spent an hour talking about our values, our dreams, our passions, our work; sprinkling the topic of faith in on occasion. It was one of those conversations that lifted our spirits even higher and confirmed that we both were exactly where we needed to be at that moment.

I had tried to line up a Warm Showers host here in Pensacola but wasn’t successful. The Methodist Church in downtown is on the list of hosts but doesn’t allow dogs in their building. Another person I contacted online already had a houseful and two of my friends had reached out to people they knew here but had no luck.

I decided I would camp at the church, sleeping out under the stars, laying my sleeping bag out on the soft court-yard lawn. It seemed like the perfect spot as I drifted of to sleep, Jo resting in his wagon beside me. At four in the morning, that’s when the sprinklers came on.

Greg and Patrick cycled through the steam room and then cooled off by taking a few laps in the resorts roof-top lazy river. I took a seat outside on their sixth floor deck that wraps it’s way around the full length of the luxurious penthouse they put me up in. Jo laid under my patio chair while I wrote down my thoughts and watched the motorboats leave their ripple on the bay.

Jo is such a bright dog and extremely fun to travel with. I couldn’t imagine making this voyage without him by my side. And I imagine that some of the folks that have welcomed us in have done so to become friends with my best friend. I count him as a blessing everyday. Jo easily adapts to every situation that we find ourselves in, and is always a gentlemen.

Down the street is a place called Mo’s. It’s a BBQ joint with a sandy backyard beach vibe. Corey came to town to visit the guys I’m staying with. He’s a talented musician, a singer-songwriter and from 6 till 9, we listened to his silky vocals and soft handed strum. Gregg was sitting in on percussion and had an extra hand drum that I was slapping for a few songs. Wilkins is the young man that was drawn to the rhythm and joined in with us, confiscating the instrument I was playing.

From their website: Grateful Dead cover band, The Stolen Faces deftly capture the spirit of the Dead, covering a wide variety of songs from the band’s expansive catalog and delivering them with the sort of energy and spontaneity that might have you thinking you’re standing in the Fillmore West in 1971. The group features a rotating cast of some of Nashville’s top session and touring musicians.

They were scheduled to perform at a venue down the road.

We assembled our group and headed over to Harpoons to check them out. My friend, John, from Bend, showed up to the party. After tapping my foot to their melodic melodies for an hour, I phoned for a ride, a local shuttle offering a five dollar fare to anywhere. I needed to get back and get a good nights sleep. It might have been Carl who picked me up, but right now as I’m writing, I can’t remember. He had a beautiful guitar in the back of the shuttle van that he drove and let me play a song for him. It was really kind of him to gift me the ride, refusing payment; another one of the many angels I’ve met here in Alabama.

I was accustomed to playing my guitar almost everyday before I left. It’s been awkward not having one at arms reach these last two months. The Outdoor Ukulele that I started out with was nice to have along. I haven’t seen it for a couple of weeks, believing it must have bounced out of the wagon, landing on the roadway just outside of Austin. Hopefully it found a good home, maybe another cyclist pedaling along behind me.

My red cycling jersey that I was gifted from Hutch’s Bicycle’s in Bend is still holding up. It’s been my only shirt, wearing it the last 68 days in row. If you can imagine, it’s faded and worn out and sometimes can be stood up in the corner. Before I left town I was gifted two trucker caps, one from Picky Bars and the other from 541 Threads. One of them I handed off to Emily who offered me a ride to the pier in Sand Diego on the front end of the journey. The other hat disappeared in the California desert somewhere. The one I’m wearing now I found on the side of the highway in west Texas laying out in the tall grass, a highway hat. The socks on my feet are my only pair. I’ve been waiting for them to walk away on their own. And just as the shirt and the socks are aging, I am too.

My skin has been sun soaked from scooting along the side of the blacktop highways in the middle of the day. A few more wrinkles have taken hold around my eyes. Having not thinned my beard since leaving home, I’m beginning to resemble the Brawny paper towel man, minus the flannel. And my eyebrows are almost as thick and fuzzy as I remember my Great Grandpa’s being.

Every time I leave, I find myself in another place where the people are just as loving. It continually blows my mind and fills my heart as I keep experiencing such an amazing amount of generosity, kindness and trust from the folks that I’ve crossed paths with.

I was sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away. That’s when Glenn and Maya came coasting up on their bikes. They’re the couple I first met in Arizona, and connected with again in Lafayette, who are also going coast-to-coast.

We boarded the ferry at 12:30, making our way over yonder to Fort Morgan. After landing on the shore, it was another twenty miles to civilization, the four of us, Jo included, cruising the shoulder together.

It might have been 75 degrees, the sun shining, a nice breeze coming off of the gulf. There couldn’t have been a better day to ride a bicycle; that topic coming up several times between us. We eventually found a narrow path that led us the last five miles into Gulf Shores. That’s where we split up, the two of them making their way to lunch and then through the state park. I veered right and headed a mile to the waterfront.

It’s here that I find myself on the western side of the Redneck Riviera which extends into Florida’s, Emerald Coast. The beaches are dotted with high rise resorts, the highway speckled with beach bars and everywhere you look there’s another southern seafood shack.

I was invited to stay with the Weiss family at the Caribe Resort in Orange Beach. Greg and Patrick, brothers, are friends with my buddy, John, who’s from Bend. Jo and I made our way to their vacation home, a rental that looks like a house featured on MTV Cribs. Joining the family on their sixth floor deck, we have a perfect view of the Bayou St John, which is where we watched the sunset. A pot of Gumbo sat simmering on the stovetop and before long we all gathered around the table, not speaking, only eating.

The guys had a hankerin for some live music so we headed out to see a regional favorite, singer-songwriter, Grayson Capps. Katie, a friend of Greg’s, picked us up and drove us down a piece of road. Sho nuff’, the entire county was there at Harpoons, something spiked in their styrofoam cups, a few looking as drunk as Cooter Brown.

When the music ended we thought it would be a good idea to head down to the beach, gathering with a few others, making some acoustic music under the moon, on the white sand.

They’re not really sure if it’s going to be running today. If it does, it’ll be at 12:30. She’s not been doing her job the last two days, something about bad fuel, plugged lines and a choking engine. When Marissa Mae Nicole is feeling good, she carries cars, people, bikes and dogs across the waters of Mobile Bay to Gulf Shores.

Jo and I camped out last night on an island.

I started my day at the home of Sean and Jan McLaughlin. My friend, John, who is from Bend is here in town visiting his folks. His dad, Farrell, swung by and grabbed us, taking Jo and I to meet up with John across town.

It was more than two springs ago when John and I last hung out together. When we did, we took his boat to a East Lake, just outside of Bend, and went fishing together. This time we drove the twenty miles south to Dauphin Island. We made a stop at his families home on the bay, saying hi to his mom and snapping a selfie out in their back deck.

There’s a bird refuge on the island that John and I made our way to first. We walked through the thick coastal forest, passing by the osprey nest and the alligator pond and then stepped out onto the white sand.

With the exception of two others who had the same idea as us, we had the beach to ourselves. Jo made a friend out of their french bulldog, the two of them playing on the shoreline for an hour. We just sat there in the sand, shirtless, soaking up the sun, peaceful, and talked over some of our experiences in life and what’s going on now.

John had to make it back to Mobile for a dinner with some friends. We swung by the only corner market on the island. I ordered some chicken and fried corn nuggets for dinner, grabbing a few bananas for in the morning and a ho-ho for later that night.

As we sat out front waiting for the order, the inebriated homeless man I hugged on the bridge in Biloxi came pedaling up on his bike. He looked like he was in pretty bad shape, drunk, red faced, blurry eyed and dehydrated. He told us a story; that he was riding his bike to see a doctor in Pensacola about the cancer in his hand. He was missing a finger tip and the others looked inoperable. He came out of the market with a beer in his other hand, tilting it back in front of the store. I offered him my dinner but he refused.

There’s another wildlife refuge where John dropped me off; The Dauphin Campground. This one is specifically for mosquitos and raccoons. When I got out of his truck I had twenty of them sucking the blood out of my neck faster than I could say deet. Jo and I scurried out to the beach to avoid them and watch the sun set together.

I was laying on top of my sleeping bag, sweating, warm and humid out, and no breeze. Jo was curled up by my head. I could hear an army of raccoons just outside. They were after my leftovers that were on the picnic bench. Their shadows were creeping past the wall of our tent, their clawed feet scratching in the oak leafs on the ground.

They were strangers once, now taking us in. They look after Jo and I as we make our way. They’ve fed us, gave us blankets, a place to sleep and a hot shower.

The band, Alabama, they sing a song titled, Angels Among Us. I have it stuck in my head today thinking about all of the love we’ve experienced along the way.

Oh, I believe there are Angels Among Us,
Sent down to us from somewhere up above.
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live
To teach us how to give
To guide us with a light of love

When I was seventeen, I got my first car. It was a family hand me down, an old Buick Riviera. One of my first trips in it was to go see Lynyrd Skynyrd in concert. Bad Company was opening up for them.

I put the car in drive and headed up the block. I was only a few hundred feet away from the house when a station wagon came soaring out of nowhere and completely totaled my ride. I walked away after the report and the tow. Then I phoned a friend, hopped in her car and not long after I was singing, “Sweet Home Alabama”. That’s where Jo and I are at now, in Alabama.

Joe McLaughlin is a good friend of mine who lives in Bend. I met him during the summer of 2011 when I was on another mission in life to aid in the aftermath of a horrific EF5 tornado that leveled the city of Joplin, Missouri. Learning about a mother who had had her nine year old pulled from her arms into the storm, and not surviving, I felt compelled to go help however I could.

I took two trips there that summer, driving cross country both times, working on what I had dubbed as ‘love projects’ in Joplin. One of those was “The House That Love Built”.

I had met a woman who’s house had vanished, her car was totaled, her place of employment was swept away and the daycare where she brought her three little ones had been cleaned off its slab. I became a voice for this young mother that summer.

Joe McLaughlin was back home in Bend. With the help of his wife, a bunch of her friends, and the community, we rallied together in support of those who endured such devastating loss. Holding a bluegrass concert, a benefit in Downtown Bend at Common Table, we were able to raise close to two thousand dollars in support.

At the time, I was also touring, playing my guitar and singing songs. I shared that woman’s story at every venue, emptying my tip jar at the end of each night, putting it towards the cause.

When I arrived back in Joplin in mid August, I finished what I had been divinely inspired to start. I found a small home in a nearby community and paid the rent up for six months. With the permission of the landlord, I completed a mini-makeover on the house, laying new tile, painting walls and refinishing cabinets. I scavenged around at thrift stores, yard sales, a few churches, and an appliance place, and located all the furniture, beds, and a refrigerator.

When that was done, I drove the mother to a small used car lot and spoke with the owners. We found a perfect little grocery getter for her and her children and after she signed the paperwork, with the help of many friends who supported this, I was able to hand over the cash for her new wheels.

It was Sunday afternoon, the two of us stood in the front yard of her new home. I handed her the keys to the place and told her that I loved her, that a lot of people from Bend Oregon love her. And then I drove off, headed westward.

I was able to return to Joplin and visit her again in November of 2013. Chantel and her children are doing well.

That story was leading to me telling you this one…

Joe McLaughlin has a brother who lives in Mobile. He called his bro and told him that Shoeless Jo and I were pedaling through his neighborhood. Sean and his wife, Jan, they invited us to stay over.

After leaving the town of Ocean Springs yesterday at noon, I followed Highway 90 until I came to a junction where I turned north. I had the wind on my back as I rode through the country side. It seemed like every other house had a an off-leash pit bull that could run almost as fast as I can ride.

I pulled into the driveway where Sean and Jan came out to welcome us in. Sean is a caterer here in Mobile, Creative Catering is his business. He had lined up 15 pounds of crawfish, 5 pounds of shrimp and 5 pounds of incredibly delicious sausage. We stood around in the kitchen, pulling tails, peeling shrimp and nibbling on corn and potatoes, dipping them all in a garlic butter sauce that I could have taken straight shots of.

We sat out on the patio late into the evening getting to know each other. I told him the story about how last year, I was traveling around to different military bases, working with my friend, Breck, catering meals for the Army National Guard.

We ended up talking about food for an hour, audibly swapping our favorite recipes with each other.

I’ll finish by writing this. The last 65 days of my life, seeing America, one day at a time, have been incredibly soul feeding. I’ve witnessed countless exchanges of love and trust take place as I’ve relied on the sole support of old friends, and new friends, who are caring for us, providing for us along the way. All of these experiences stir the Spirit in me and my faith continues to grow. I hope yours does too.

Here’s a link to our GoFundMe, if you feel inspired and are able to support us this way.